


head in the game

by amillionsmiles



Series: ball's in your court [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Gen, MORE BASKETBALL TEAM SHENANIGANS !!!, Slow Burn, also it turns out that I'm apparently incapable of writing short oneshots anymore, these two are the Biggest Assholes to each other and everyone else knows they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: Lance's plan for his senior year goes like this:1. Snag a second-time championship title for Voltron Academy.2. Finally buy a new car.3. Pass AP Computer Science.Tripping and falling flat on his face for their basketball team manager?Not part of the list.





	head in the game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhapsodyinpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodyinpink/gifts), [flusteredkeith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flusteredkeith/gifts).



> this ship crawled out of the woodwork, snuck up on me, and punched me in the face, so naturally I had to write fic.

The air is heavy with defeat.

Final score: 52 to 41.  Hardly enough to be considered a blowout, but the somber atmosphere of the locker room suggests otherwise. It’s difficult to believe that this is the same team that managed to snatch a victory from under Galra Tech’s nose at last year’s championship.

But that’s exactly the problem—they _aren’t_ the same team, a fact made painfully obvious by the stony silence of their new team captain.  Keith’s hands are fisted in the fabric of his shorts, head bent and gaze drilling into the floor.

“All right.” Coach Coran clears his throat.  “Chin up, boys.  Nobody’s died.”

“We knew this was going to be a tough game going into it,” he continues, looking around the room. “We’ve lost a lot of talent and experience between last year and this year, it’s true.  But that’s true of every team.  Some of you are filling new roles, and they aren’t shoes I expect you to fit right into immediately.  That’ll come with time.  Chalk this up to experience; that’s what the pre-season is for.  Now we’ve seen what works and what needs to be fixed.

Practice tomorrow afternoon at the usual time.  Finish up whatever you need to in here and make sure you guys don’t leave any of your stuff behind.  Let’s bring it in.”

Everyone gets to their feet and circles up, hands placed in the center.  Normally, Keith would lead the cheer, but Lance can tell he’s still a bit rattled from the loss, so he steps in.   

“Lions on 3!”

“1-2-3 Lions!”

They break.  Hunk goes to the bathroom to wash up; Coach Coran leaves the locker room to check on the bus.  The rest of the team starts dressing out—Lance grimaces as the collective odor from eleven boys pulling off their basketball shoes fills the air.

He steps into his pants slowly.  Perks of skinny jeans: they make his ass look good.  The downside is that they’re a pain to put on after games, as they tend to stick to his legs when he’s sweaty.  By the time he’s buckled his belt and slipped into his usual cotton tee, most of the locker room has cleared out, save Keith, still in his uniform and looking utterly dejected.

Shoving his dirty socks into his bag, Lance goes over and sits next to him. 

“Hey, man, don’t beat yourself up about this.  Like Coach said, it’s still pre-season.”

A year ago, if you’d told Lance that he’d be here, comforting Keith Kogane, he’d have scoffed.  It turns out, however, that you can’t really win a district title without respecting your teammates, and anyways, they left the whole rivalry thing in the dust a while ago, despite the good-natured ribbing that remains here and there. Point is, Keith is solidly in the friend camp, and friends don’t let other friends mope for no good reason.   

“I messed up,” Keith says, head thudding against the wall behind them as he looks up at the ceiling.  “Trying to take on their defense, all those turnovers—what was I _thinking?”_

“Hey, it’s okay.  You were just trying to play your game.  The only difference is that now you have to see it more as _our_ game.” Lance taps the side of his head with his finger.

Keith snorts.  “You sound like Shiro.”  There’s a wistfulness to his voice when he speaks of the former captain, now away at college.  “I was up last night talking to him, you know.  We were going over strategies and talking about plays and then I stepped out on that court tonight and it’s like I just—forgot it all.  We would’ve beat Balmera last year like it was nothing. I blew it.”

“There you go again with the ‘I,’” says Lance.  “There are five of us out on that court, Keith, plus six more of us on the bench.  Eight, if you count Coach and Pidge.  We’re all in this together.  So we lost—big deal.  We’ll work hard and we’ll beat them when we see them again in district, no problem.”  He claps Keith on the shoulder, standing up.  “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty tired. The sooner we get on the bus, the sooner we get home.”

Keith shoots him a small but grateful smile.  “Yeah, okay.  I’ll be right out.”

Satisfied with their pep talk, Lance leaves him behind and heads out to the parking lot, bounding up the steps of the bus.  Coach Coran is seated toward the front—“Keith?” he questions, and Lance answers, “He’s on his way,” while scanning the rows before him.  Most everyone is an indistinct shape in the dark, but he finally finds the person he’s looking for.

“‘Sup, nerd bird.”

Their basketball manager rolls her eyes, unfazed by the nickname.  (Meanwhile, Lance is especially proud of the whole Pidge = pigeon = bird association.) Still, she doesn’t argue when he sits next to her, the laminated vinyl crinkling under his weight.

“Can I see the stats?”

It’s an old routine between them by now.  Pidge passes over the book and Lance takes out his phone to use as a flashlight, holding it up with his left hand as he traces down the page with his right to find his name.  11 points: 2 of them from free throws, and only 1 3-pointer made out of 5 attempts.  He’s definitely had better days.

Pidge seems to read his mind.  “You guys didn’t do as well on the outside shots this time around,” she assesses, taking back the stats book.  “It’s all right, though.  I’m 95% sure we’ll beat them next time.”

“Only 95%?” Lance teases, but he’s already shrugging off the loss.  Next play, and all that.  It’s why he loves the sport—there’s a certain dynamism on the court that’s hard to find anywhere else. 

The bus gets rolling, starting forward with a lurch; Keith must have finally boarded.

“Is your dad picking you up from school?” asks Lance, bending over to rummage around in his bag for a granola bar.

“Yeah.”

“I could have given you a ride, you know.” He breaks off a chunk of his KIND bar, popping it in his mouth.  “You don’t live that far away from me, and then your dad wouldn’t have to drive at night.”

Pidge shoots him a doubtful look.  “Your car is like, on the verge of breaking down.”

“Lucky Blue is _old_ , not decrepit,” scoffs Lance.  “But fine, when I finally get a new car, _then_ I’ll take you home.”

“Ew, gross.”

“Shut up _,_ Pidge, I didn’t mean it like _that._ ”

God forbid that he’d ever consider Pidge romantically.  She doesn’t let him get away with nearly enough, plus he’s pretty sure that she’s still secretly plotting revenge for last year’s Tabasco Fiasco.

Pidge looks on the brink of retort but stifles a yawn instead, glasses tilting askew as she reaches up with a knuckle to rub the corner of her eye.  It makes her appear adorably innocent, and Lance can’t resist teasing, poking her in the side.

“You can close your eyes and get some rest, you know.  I’ll even be nice and offer my shoulder as a cushion.”

“Please, your shoulder’s too bony.”

“Funny, because I have it on several good authorities that my shoulders are broad and swoon-worthy—”

That earns him a punch on said shoulder, along with a grumbled, “You are _so obnoxious._ ”

Lance laughs.  “Just go to sleep, Pidge.  I’ll wake you up when we’re back on campus.”

Surprisingly, she listens, flipping up her hood and curling away from him toward the window, where the lights from the cityscape slice through the glass.    

 

*

 

It’s 6:45 A.M. and Lance is sitting in his car, trying to get his driver’s side window to roll back up.  The sun has just started to rise, which takes some of the edge off of his frustration, but the 3-inch gap between where his window ends and where it _should_ be remains painfully obvious.

“Come on, Blue, don’t do this to me,” he groans, thumping forward so that his head hits the top of the steering wheel.  It’s not the end of the world—the student body of Voltron Academy is trustworthy enough that he doubts anyone would try to break into his car, and it’s not like he has anything valuable to begin with, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.  This is the same car that got three of his four older siblings through high school.  He’s like, 99% sure that Tommy lost his virginity in the backseat.  So every time Lucky Blue falls apart on him, it feels like a betrayal.

Then again, maybe Lucky Blue has gotten wind of Lance’s long-term plan to replace her, and this is her revenge.  Not that cars are sentient, but. It’s a theory.

Lance finally gives up and takes the keys out of the ignition, grabbing his stuff from the seat next to him and getting out of the car.

 _At least I got a good parking spot,_ he thinks.  He hates the weeks when they have early morning practice as much as the next person, but the upside is that it gets him to school before 90% of the rest of the populace.

Shoving his phone in his back pocket, Lance heads toward the gym, clicking his keys over his shoulder.  As he gets closer, he notices a petite figure seated at one of the stone tables near the gym doors.  The person is slumped forward, head buried in their arms, glasses perched in a tangled mane of tawny hair.

A grin steals over his face.

Lance slows his steps, treading quietly.  Sneaking up behind his victim, he brings his lips as close as possible to the shell of their ear before releasing one loud, long whistle.

The elbow driven into his stomach is expected but worth it, especially for the bleary-eyed scowl he receives.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lance grins, sliding onto the bench beside Pidge. He snatches up the thermos by her elbow and sniffs it, making a face at the bitter stench of black coffee.

Pidge swipes at him half-heartedly, bags beneath her eyes.  “Go away.”

“Why are _you_ here so early?”

“Parents had work. Dad dropped me off on the way to his lab.” Shortly after her pronouncement, she thumps forward into her arms again.

“You know what would solve this whole problem?” asks Lance, nudging her.

“Don’t say it—”

“Getting your license.”

Pidge doesn’t deign to provide a verbal response, instead opting to raise her middle finger.

“There’s a reason cars have captured the American imagination,” Lance persists, philosophizing. “Automobiles are a symbol of autonomy.  They offer personal mobility, freedom…”

“Currently, the only thing enticing me to get behind a wheel is the prospect of maybe one day running you over.”

“And get tried as a minor.  Clever.”

“Lance.” Keith has finally shown up, gym bag slung over his shoulder and basketball shoes in hand.  “Stop bothering Pidge and get in the gym, it’s time for practice.”

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Lance salutes, getting to his feet.  To Pidge, he says: “Duty calls.  Guess you’re on your own again.”

“Oh, no, I’m _so_ upset.”

“You’ll miss me one of these days,” he counters, reaching over to ruffle her hair.

Keith falls into step beside him, pulling open the gym doors. “ _You’re_ cheerful,” he observes, a single eyebrow raised.

“Am I?” asks Lance, setting his stuff down in the bleachers and shimmying out of his sweatpants and jacket to reveal the T-shirt and shorts underneath.  Now that he considers it, he does feel a bit more upbeat than he was when he first got on campus.  “Might be because of the weather. It’s not usually this warm in November.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, a certain dryness to his tone. “Must be the weather.”

The rest of the team filters in, tying shoelaces, touching toes.  They start their stretches, and soon the blood is pumping through his veins as they move on to conditioning and other drills.  His back, arms, and hamstrings are aching after the first batch of towel runs, and then it’s full-court layups and 3 on 2 on 1 and 7-spot shooting.  It’s a good kind of ache, though.  There’s something about fighting your way through the fatigue of a sport that makes you feel like you can conquer anything.  By the time practice has ended, Lance’s body is tired but his mind is alert.

Hunk, though, looks a little worse for wear.

“You okay, buddy?” Lance asks his best friend.  “You look like you didn’t sleep much last night.”

“I didn’t,” Hunk sighs.  “I was studying for the English quiz and trying to finish at least one of my college essays, plus I have a physics test tomorrow.”

Lance makes a face.  “That’s rough.  What about you, Keith?”

Keith shrugs.  “Homework’s the usual, I guess, but my schedule’s not as packed as Hunk’s.  Plus I’m done with all my college stuff.”

“You’re _done?_ ”

“Yeah, I only applied to 3 schools.” He frowns at Lance.  “I thought you were done, too.  Didn’t you turn an app in back in October?”

“Yeah, for Carolina.  But I still have to do like 6 others.”  He swallows.  “In case, you know…”

“When do you find out?”

“End of January.”

It’s weird, what college admissions season does to people.  Lance has never been a superstitious person, and he grew up breathing and bleeding Carolina Blue, courtesy of two parents and two older siblings (Anais and Tommy decided to buck the trend).  But the closer he gets to hearing back, the less he wants to talk about it—afraid to wear his wanting too openly, because then it’ll hurt that much more if he gets rejected.

Hunk picks up on his mood and reaches over, squeezing his knee.

“You’ll get in, Lance.”

“And if you don’t, screw them,” shrugs Keith, who spent the entirety of last year’s AP season plotting Collegeboard’s demise alongside Pidge.  He shoots Lance a wry smile, pulling on his fingerless gloves.  “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

 

*

 

There are lots of things that Lance finds funny.  For example: elephant seals, Vine compilations, and the sight of Katie Holt trying to maneuver a box of uniforms down the stairs.

It’s their last tournament before winter break, and most everyone is on the bus or about to board it.  As manager, Pidge has been saddled with the task of bringing up the rear, carrying all their equipment.  The box containing their jerseys, however, is almost too wide for her arm span; as a result, Pidge is forced to waddle comically, using her hips to keep it in place. 

Lance watches her progress down the steps leading from the back door of the gym.  At their base, Pidge sets the box down next to the bag of basketballs.  She places her hands on her hips as she regards the items in front of her, trying to figure out the most efficient way to carry the two in one trip.

Lance bounds over just as Pidge hauls the ball bag over her shoulder, picking up the box of jerseys before she can get her hands on them.

“That’s my job,” she says, frowning, because of course Pidge would rather be annoyed at him than grateful.

Lance raises an eyebrow.  “Just let me carry this.  The ball bag is already three-quarters of your size.”

“Shut up,” growls Pidge, aiming a kick at his shins.  He steps out of range easily, and Pidge scurries to catch up; Lance bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from making a comment about how it takes her two strides to match one of his.

“Do you have the med kit?”

“It’s already on the bus,” says Pidge.  “Where’s your gym bag?”

“Gave it to Hunk to carry.”

“Typical.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” quips Lance, which, granted, doesn’t make complete sense, but at least it gets him an eye roll.  “Are you excited for winter break?”

Pidge smiles.  “Yeah.  Matt will back in town, so we’ll probably do a Carlsbad trip and a White Sands trip like usual, then spend the rest of the time just hanging out.”  She hesitates, biting her lip before asking, “What about you?”

“Visiting the grandparents in Florida.  Mariel and Anais are coming down so I’ll be on babysitting duty with the little nieces and nephews again.”

“Uncle Lance.” Pidge looks thoughtful and, dare he say it, mildly impressed.  When she catches him studying her, though, her expression quickly shifts back to neutral.

They finally get the stuff onto the bus.  Lance leaves Pidge’s side to sit next to Hunk, though Pidge ends up in the seat in front of them, immediately putting on her bulky headphones.  Lance pulls out his laptop; it’s a forty-five minute drive to Arus High, the host of the tournament, and he’s hopeful that he can make some headway on his computer science homework before they get there.

Taking the class had been a bit of a whim; he’d done mostly biology throughout high school and figured that it might be good to try something new before graduating.  After ten minutes, though, there’s a growing pressure behind his eyes, heralding a coming migraine.

Lance looks to his side.  Hunk is knocked out, head bumping against the rattling bus window. Which leaves…

“What?” Pidge asks upon feeling him tap the top of her head. 

“I need help,” says Lance, handing his laptop to her over the seat before stepping into the aisle and sliding into the spot next to her.  “I’m supposed to program this stupid mosquito to multiply every three steps, but it keeps disappearing.”

Pidge scans through his code before handing his laptop back to him.  “You’re missing a semicolon on line 35—”

“Fuck, I _knew_ it’d be something stupid like that,” says Lance, saving the change and hitting _run_ again.  “Wait, hold on, now there’s too many of them—”

“I wasn’t done listing all your errors,” huffs Pidge, leaning over.  “This whole switch-case portion is messed up, you can actually just take care of it with one if-then…”

Lance listens to her talk.  There’s something soothing about her techno-babble, an endearing quality to her excitement as she gets particularly heated about his decision to use a for-each loop— _god, Lance, are you **trying** to make this harder for yourself? _ He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until she turns her head to look at him, scrutinizing behind those giant circular frames.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.  “Just thinking.”

Pidge narrows her eyes.  “About what?”

“About how smart you are,” Lance says, and it’s true—Pidge skipped a grade, could easily have skipped two if she’d wanted to, though it’s strange to envision her graduating alongside him and Hunk and Keith.  “And how lucky I am to have you.”

He means it in the most grateful way possible—his grade in this class would be significantly lower without her—but Pidge seems to take offense, cheeks flushing pink.

“Stupid,” she mutters.  He can’t tell whether the comment is meant for him or herself. She pulls her headphones back over her ears before he can ask.      

 

*

 

One week after returning from winter break, Pidge barges into the library, disturbing Hunk and Lance’s quiet study session.

“Lance,” she says unceremoniously, and his first thought is— _oh, shit, what am I in trouble for now—_ before she follows up with: “You have a car.”

Lance leans back in his chair, balancing precariously on its two back legs as he eyes her warily.  “Yes, I do.  And it’s a new one, too.”

He’d finally gotten it over winter break, the culmination of two years of savings plus money from his parents, on the agreement that the car will go to his mom while he’s away at college.  It’s a sleek red beauty, all shiny paint and feline grace.  Lance’s only regret is that he didn’t have it junior year, because it definitely would have helped him pick up chicks. 

“Great. You’re helping me with dinner duty, then.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Coach Coran gave me money to cover food for the whole team before the game,” Pidge explains, and Lance sees a slip of paper change hands between her and Hunk.  “I need you to drive me.”

“Why can’t Keith do it? He’s captain!”

“Keith’s in ‘the zone’ right now.  Besides.” And here she actually attempts a pout—Lance nearly topples backward, he’s so surprised.  “You promised me you’d give me a ride when you got your new car.”

“I—” splutters Lance, at a loss.  Hunk smothers a laugh, disguising it as a cough.

“Just go with her, Lance,” he says, and there’s something suspicious in his tone that Lance will have to grill him about later.  “It’s not like you were being that productive anyways.”

“I _resent_ that,” says Lance.  “If I fail this quiz tomorrow, I’m blaming both of you.”

“Ha!” is Pidge’s only response before she’s manhandling him out the door, dragging him toward the parking lot by his sleeve.  He manages to put his foot down and extricate himself from her grip eventually, resting an arm on her head when she comes to a stop, looking utterly lost.  The parking lot stuffed full of cars glitters before them, all shiny chrome bumpers.

“Lance,” Pidge says through gritted teeth, when a minute has passed and he’s still using her as an armrest.  “Where’s your car.”

“This way,” he says, whistling cheerfully.  Pidge follows.

They get to Big Red and he leans against the driver’s side door, posing proudly as he waits for her assessment.  “Well?”

“Well, it definitely screams ‘I’m an adolescent male.’”

Lance rolls his eyes.  “Just get in.”

Pidge doesn’t need to be told twice, opening the passenger’s side and sliding into her seat without ceremony, clicking her seatbelt.  Lance, meanwhile, takes significantly more time, savoring the feel of the leather.  The smooth purr of the engine as he turns the key in the ignition, a far cry from the dying splutter of his old car.  A windshield that isn’t pockmarked, and the sweet, sweet scent of air freshener—

“Any day now, Lance.”

“Look, it’s my car, I can do whatever I want and take as long as I please.  Also, congratulations, you’re the first person to sit in Big Red besides me, which means you get to be the first to hear the rules.  Don’t scratch the leather, don’t leave any smudges on the dashboard, and _don’t touch any of the buttons!”_

Pidge scowls when he slaps her hand away.  “I was just trying to turn on the heat,” she grumbles, shoving her hands into the pockets of her green hoodie.  “It’s cold.”

“All in due time,” says Lance, bracing a hand on the back of her headrest so that he can reverse out of the parking lot.  “So, where to?”

“Subway.” Pidge pulls a folded list out of her pocket, waving it in the air.  “I’ve got orders.”

“Sweet, did you get down mine?”

“Yeah. 6-inch Spicy Italian, red onion and jalapenos.”

“Aw, Pidge.” Lance smirks at her, finally reaching over to adjust the heat.  “You’ve got it memorized. I’m touched.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Keeping data on you is literally part of my job.”  And then, in typical Pidge fashion, she turns things around on him: “Also, can we talk about the fact that you named your car _Big Red?_ ”

The ensuing debate keeps them busy until they get to Subway.  After that, it’s a quick stop by the gas station so he can refill his tank while Pidge dashes in to use the bathroom.  Lance has the heat running, the interior of the car toasty warm by the time she gets back.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold on, what is _that?”_ he asks, throwing an arm across the seat to prevent Pidge from sitting down.

Pidge looks at the giant cup in her hands, the frosty blue dome visible through the clear, plastic lid.  “A Slurpee?”

“Okay, first off, you were complaining about being cold and now you went and bought a frozen drink?  Secondly, you are not bringing that in my car.”

Pidge shoots him a flat look.  “I’m not five years old, Lance. I won’t spill.”

“You see these seats? _Spotless._ I’m not risking it.”

“Fine.” Pidge shrugs. “If you’re willing to wait here until I finish.  But pre-game starts in an hour and if we don’t head back now you won’t have enough time to eat your dinner and actually digest it.  I’d hate for you to get a stomach cramp…”  She punctuates her statement by taking an obnoxiously loud sip of the Slurpee, maintaining eye contact the whole time.  Any other girl might have thrown Lance a bone and at least tried to bat her eyelashes.  But not Pidge, no. Pidge dropped all pretense of sweetness and innocence a long time ago in favor of aligning herself with the Devil.

“Goddamnit,” Lance swears, retracting his arm.  “If a _single_ drop gets on these seats, you’re dead.”

Pidge doesn’t respond, too busy gloating like the little asshole she is.  Lance turns on the radio, hoping the cheesy pop music will distract him from sneaking sideways glances and entertaining worst-case scenarios the whole way back.  It doesn’t work. Pidge remains glaringly obvious in his peripheral vision, the worst kind of magnet.  A drop of syrup tracks its way down the side of her cup; Lance is about to make a dying noise when Pidge swipes it up with her thumb just in time, licking it off her finger.    

The gesture eases Lance’s mind, somewhat, and he fully relaxes five minutes later, deciding to embrace the situation as he holds out his right hand.

“Gimme a sip.”

Pidge pauses mid-slurp, considering.  “No.”

 _“No?”_ His fingers wiggle impatiently at her across the center console.  “I _drove_ you.  This is your passenger tax.  Pay up.”

“I’m saying this as your manager,” Pidge says.  “No soft drinks before the game. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“That’s a BS rule!”

“Maybe, but you have to honor it.  Also, you were supposed to turn left at that last light.”

“Wh—no I wasn’t!” Lance denies, despite the gut knowledge telling him otherwise.

“Were too.”

“Was _not._ ”

“Were too,” says Pidge.  When Lance looks over at her, she sticks out her tongue, stained blue.  The end of the red straw of her drink has been gnawed at, a crumpled mess, and Lance files that detail away as further proof that Pidge is, in fact, a gremlin.

“Okay, look here, missy, you can’t be a backseat driver if you don’t even have a license.”

“I have a permit!”

“My point exactly.  When are you going to actually learn to drive?”

Pidge wrinkles her nose.  “I just think it’s boring,” she says.  “Besides, why bother when I have you?”

“Wow, is that all I am to you? Just a set of wheels?” says Lance, placing a hand over his chest in mock hurt.  “And here I thought you hung out with me for my charming personality.”  He leans a bit toward Pidge, checking over his right shoulder to change lanes and start circling back.  “What are you going to do next year when I’m away at college?”

Pidge is quiet.  So quiet that Lance thinks she must not have heard him.  He opens his mouth to repeat himself.

“I’ll figure something out.”  She doesn’t look at him when she says it, face directed toward the passenger window, like there’s something in the side mirror that Lance can’t see.  The shift is jarring; the mood between them has gone uncharacteristically pensive, weighted.  It feels like he should say something reassuring, but he isn’t sure what.

And it does feel strange, the more he thinks about it.  The idea of being somewhere else next year, whether or not it ends up being Chapel Hill.  No more randomly crashing at Hunk’s on weeknights or smoothie runs with Keith or trading barbs with Pidge.  A campus that he won’t know like the back of his hand.  Hallways that won’t make him feel on top of the world when he strides through them, at least not until he’s earned his keep.

But these are thoughts better indulged late at night, in the comfort of his bedroom.  So Lance pushes them aside, focusing back on the road and the game ahead.

 

*

 

He’s at his desk working on his computer science project when the email appears, a notification in the top right corner of his screen.  At first, he ignores it, but soon the brief glimpse of words is cycling through his head: _a status updated has been posted to your portal, a status update has been posted to your portal—_

Lance closes out of his program with a shaky breath, opening up his browser.  He’s typed the website in so many times that autofill does most of the work for him; soon, he’s navigating to the panel on the right, cursor hovering over the link.

His heart thuds in his ears, rabbit-fast.

The walls of his room seem to press closer, curious; the posters over his bed regard him with watchful eyes. 

He sucks in a breath of air—like readying himself to blow out a cake full of candles—and clicks.

_Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you acceptance to—_

The laptop screen slams down and he’s rocketing out of his chair, nearly clipping his shoulder on the doorframe as he careens down the stairs.

“Mom!  Dad!  _I got in!”_

 

 

*

 

The tray of cupcakes slides in front of him unceremoniously, some of the pale blue frosting already stuck to the saran wrap.

Lance looks up.  “Pidge! What are these?”

“Congratulations, doofus.  You got into college.”

He peels the plastic covering away gingerly, lifts one up to the light.  Birthday cake mix—his favorite. 

Right before he takes a bite, he pauses.

Wait.

Pidge _never_ goes out of her way to do nice things for him.

“Did you poison this?”

Pidge’s eyes flash.  “Trust me, Lance, I have much more creative ways to introduce you to your death.”

Hunk has already snatched one up and tells Pidge, through a spray of crumbs: “Hey, this is pretty good, Pidge, I never would have guessed you baked.  Little heavy on the vanilla extract, but a solid 7 out of 10 all around.”

“Wasn’t _I_ supposed to get the first bite?” Lance asks, offended.  He quickly remedies the situation by shoving as big a portion as possible into his mouth. The action reduces him to giving Pidge a thumbs-up instead of any meaningful comment, and she rolls her eyes, sitting down next to him and reaching for a cupcake of her own.

 

*

 

One of Lance’s favorite sounds is the gentle _swish_ of the net when a shot goes in.  Bounce, step, release: a rhythm ingrained into his bones, one he could tap out in his sleep.

Hunk is tutoring some freshman in math and Keith is who knows where, so he’s enlisted Pidge to rebound for him instead.

“Are you excited for college?” she asks over a bounce pass.

Lance steps forward to catch it, raises his hands, snaps his wrist.  He winces when the ball hits the rim and goes flying in the other direction, forcing Pidge to chase it down.

“I’m more excited for the summer, to be honest,” he answers.  “But then college, sure.  All I know is that I’m definitely ready to be done with senior year.”

He takes a shot from the top of the key before looking over at her.  “What about you? How’s junior year treating you?”

Pidge shrugs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.  “I got all of Matt’s old quizzes, so that’s been a godsend.”

“Sneaky.” Lance grins at her. “I like it.”

Pidge throws the ball back toward him; Lance catches it waist-level before dribbling backwards, an idea taking shape.

“Hey, how much do you want to bet I can make this half-court shot?”

Pidge sends him a flat look.  “The statistical likelihood of you sinking that shot is like, negative one.”

“Okay, I don’t even take statistics but I know that it a straight-up lie,” he says.  “How about this: if I make this, you owe me fries and a milkshake.”

“Deal.” Pidge crosses her arms, smug.  “And if you _don’t_ , you owe me fifty dollars.”

“Ten.”

“Thirty.”

“I’m broke, Pidge!” he protests, before they eventually settle on twenty-five.

The stakes decided, Lance lines up for his shot, giving himself plenty of room behind half-court.  He gets a running start, ball and feet pounding on the shiny hardwood before pulling up right at the bold black line and launching himself into the air, simultaneously lobbing the ball with all his might.  It spins out of his hands all wrong and Lance makes a face, already anticipating the ache of twenty-five fewer dollars in his wallet.  Outwardly, though, he’s not one to concede defeat, and so he and Pidge both watch as the basketball rotates through the air.

And sails, cleanly, through the net.

“A _HA!”_ Lance screeches. 

What he does next is more out of instinct and adrenaline than anything.  In lieu of a victory lap, he charges at Pidge, sweeping her up and over his shoulder.  Pidge makes a sound of outrage, somewhere between pterodactyl shriek and angry cat.

“Put me down, Lance!”

“You thought I couldn’t do it,” he singsongs, spinning her around for good measure.  “Say it with me: Lance McClain is a mcfreaking _god._ ”

“In your _dreams_ ,” counters Pidge, trying to kick out of his grip.  Lance, however, has perfected this particular hold.  Uncle duties, and all that.  He’s definitely had to drag several angry children apart from each other during family gatherings.

“Guess you aren’t coming down, then,” says Lance, fake innocence.  “I could do this _all_ day.”

Pidge’s fists hammer against his back for a bit longer before she gives up, her entire body sagging.  She mumbles something under her breath.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Lance McClain is a mcfreaking god,” she says, grudgingly, and Lance laughs, finally putting her down.  There’s a lightness in his chest, like the one he gets when he plays with Sofia and Manny, Mariel’s twins, except different.

“You okay there? Your face is red.”

“That’s what happens when you hang upside down and all the blood rushes to your head, you _idiot,_ ” Pidge grouches, throwing a hand out at him.  Lance dodges the would-be blow to his gut easily, fingers wrapping around her wrist to prevent any further attack.

And it’s in that moment, with sweat dripping down his back and Pidge’s mouth pursed at him like a fish’s, cheeks puffed out in annoyance, that he becomes suddenly aware of the rapid pulse under his thumb, the hitch in his own breathing.  Nothing to do with physical exertion but everything to do, maybe, with the girl standing in front of him, all five-feet-flat of snark and I- _will_ -kick-your-ass.

 _Oh,_ Lance thinks.  _Well._

 

*

 

“I think I have a crush on Pidge.”

Hunk doesn’t miss a beat, eyes trained straight down on his calculus textbook as he flips the page.  “Yeah, I figured.”

“You _figured?_ ”

Hunk levels him with a flat look and holds up a hand, ticking off on his fingers: “Let’s see.  You always bother her on the bus, you get excited when she asks you to give her rides home, and you let her eat in your car.  So yeah, if I’d had to make a guess, having a crush on her is what I would have gone with.” His statement finished, Hunk bends his head, pencil scratching away on paper.

“Are you writing this _down?_ ”

“No, I’m trying to finish the math homework.  What’d you get for number six?”

“Haven’t made it that far yet.  Can you focus for a second? My love life is on the line.”

Hunk heaves a long-suffering sigh before closing his notebook and pushing it aside.

“You have _five_ _minutes_ to unload.”

“It’s just weird to think about, you know?  Like, when did this even happen?  When did something in my brain suddenly flip a switch and decide, ‘Hey, you like Pidge!’ And like, I _think_ she likes me, because I was getting some serious vibes or whatever, but what if I’m reading it all wrong? What should I do?”

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“I don’t know. Hang out more, I guess.  Take her to prom—” Lance cuts himself off abruptly, going wide-eyed.

“Lance, what just happened.  Are you okay?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I just—I just imagined Pidge in a dress.”

Hunk raises an eyebrow.  “Good image or bad image?”

“Definitely a good image.  _Not_ that she has to wear a dress or anything. Fuck the gender binary, she can show up in a tux for all I care—oh my _god. Hunk.”_ Lance cradles his head in his hands, feeling like a car whose wheels have spun out from under him.  “I have it _so bad._ ”

“If it’s any consolation, Pidge has probably constructed a robot in your likeness and then smashed it to pieces as _her_ preferred method of coping, so I’d say you’re handling this revelation pretty well.”

“The championship game is in two weeks, Hunk,” Lance moans.  “I can’t catch feelings.  I have to get my head in the game.”

“That veiled High School Musical reference destroyed any sympathy I had left for you.”

Lance grins.  “Okay, but what does it say about you if you picked up on it?”

“That I spend too much time hanging out with you, clearly,” says Hunk, throwing an eraser at him.  “Now seriously, we need to finish the homework.”

“Roger that.” 

 

*

 

For the record, Lance has gone through his entire basketball career without ever once throwing up.  That’s more than what can be said for half of the team—Hunk, for example, definitely heaved after pushing himself too hard during their first conditioning run.  Tonight, though, Lance might join the ranks; his stomach is a roiling, acidic mess.

The bleachers are crammed with people, half of them wearing Galra Tech’s red and purple, the other half wearing Voltron Academy’s black and white.  And they’ve been here before, but it’s _different,_ now that they’re the defending champions.  Last year’s defeat is a fresh wound, and the crowd is thirsty for blood.

Not to mention, Lance does _not_ like the look of Galra’s new point guard.  Lance doesn’t trust any guy who can make a ponytail look slick instead of greasy.  That’s like, next level witchcraft.

Keith is on edge, too.  He keeps eyeing the other team during their pre-game, almost gets a bloody nose due to his distraction, if not for Hunk intercepting the ball flying toward his face at the last minute. Allura, Matt, and Shiro have managed to make it down for the game, and Lance knows that Keith is particularly antsy at the thought of his boyfriend watching from the stands.  There’s a lot on his shoulders.

On _all_ of their shoulders.

A minute before the buzzer goes off, Coach Coran calls them in.  Lance squeezes into the huddle between Hunk and Keith, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed by it all—the warm press of bodies, the determination in everyone’s eyes, the blisters and sports tape and sweat stains that have taken them to this moment.  It swells inside him, this sense of belonging to something _greater._ Victory, but also loss, because after this it’s upwards and onwards, to college and the rest of his life’s great unknown.

The end of an era.

“Whatever happens tonight, know that you’ve earned your place on this court,” Coach Coran says, looking in each of their eyes.  “A championship isn’t something you just win, it’s something you work for, and that’s what I’ve seen from all of you since the start of the season.  We’ve come a long way.  Keep your heads on straight, keep your hearts in the right place, and look out for each other.  You get out there, and you play ball.”     

“Lions on 3!” Keith calls, eyes bright with the challenge.

_“1-2-3 Lions!"_

*

 

They’re down by three, with 2 seconds left in the game.

The air is tense.  It’s been a good fight—they were trailing ten points at the half but managed to come roaring out of the gates, keeping it neck and neck afterwards. Galra Tech’s offense is trickier this year; they’re more patient with their passes, content to wear out the defense before trying to make anything big happen.  It’s Voltron Academy’s possession, everyone’s brows furrowed as they inspect the play Coach Coran has written up on his clipboard.

“Hunk, you inbound.  Rax, Rocky, Keith, you three will draw defenders on the backcourt.  Lance—you set yourself up for the three.” 

“They’ll be riding us hard,” Keith pipes up.  “If you need to step up higher to get the pass, do it.  We don’t have much time, Lance, so any shot you think you can get up…” He reaches over, clasping Lance’s shoulder, and it’s a testament to how far they’ve come, that Lance can read the faith burning in his eyes.  “Take it.”

Lance swallows.  “Okay.”

“Drink up.” Pidge shoves her way into their midst, the team huddle dispersing to wait out the remaining ten seconds of their time-out.

Lance accepts the bottle of blue Gatorade from her gratefully, gulping down as much as he can. 

“Thanks, Pidge,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  Pidge takes the drink back, nodding.

“You’ve got this,” she says.  It’s the same voice she used to bully her way into captaining the robotics team, a tone that brooks no room for debate, and Lance’s chest overflows, suddenly, with affection.

 _I don’t have a crush on Pidge,_ he thinks.  Crushes are soft, simple things.  Katie Holt is a complicated tangle of parts, and Lance is starting to realize that he wants to spend a good portion of his foreseeable future figuring them out.

_Any shot you think you can get up… take it._

He’s about to lob a 22 ounce ball into an 18-inch diameter hoop from a distance of at least 19 feet. A long shot.

What’s one more to add to the list?      

“Pidge,” Lance starts, heart pounding faster than it does after a full-court layup, “if I make this shot, will you go out with me?”

The last part gets semi-drowned out by the buzzer going off (thanks, universe), and Pidge waves him off with a “Yeah, sure,” shooing him onto the court.  It’s not until they’ve gotten into position and the ref has blown his whistle, handing the ball over to Hunk to inbound, that the rest kicks in—“Wait, _what?”_

 

*

 

This is how the longest two seconds of Lance’s life unfold:

Hunk slaps the ball.  Keith and Rax dive toward him, criss-crossing in hopes of throwing off their defenders.  Lotor is back on Keith in a heartbeat, the two point guards struggling for position.  Rocky tries to get open, to no avail.

Across the court, Hunk motions desperately.  Lance starts running to catch the pass, but one of the Galra defenders manages to get his hand in the lane, fingers knocking it from its original trajectory, and it’s a mad dash for possession, the clock ticking now that someone’s made contact, and Lance chases it down right at half-court, no options left but to launch it from where he stands.

It goes in.

 

*

 

It’s nearly 10 P.M. when he finally leaves the gym, hair curling around his ears and damp from all the sweat.  They managed to pull out the win in overtime, 63 to 59. Allura has invited everyone over to celebrate— _like old times—_ and he’s changed into a simple blue tee and thrown on his letterman for the occasion.

Whistling cheerfully, Lance is in no way prepared for the shape that materializes out of the darkness.

 _“Jesus,”_ he swears, taking a step back.  He squints. “ _Pidge?”_

“Hey, Lance.”  She doesn’t move from her spot.

Lance walks toward her.  “I thought you’d be leaving with Matt.”

“Yeah, well.”  Pidge eyes him sideways, as if afraid to meet his gaze head on.  “I was wondering if you could give me a ride.”

“Sure, of course.”

Neither of them moves.  There’s an awkward distance between them because Lance can’t decide whether he should close the gap.  He can feel himself reddening the longer they stand there.  _Nice going, McClain.  Ask a girl out in the heat of the moment and then consign yourself to the sound of crickets chirping for the rest of your life.  Good one._

“Did you mean it?” blurts Pidge. “What you said in the gym.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, and boy is he _not_ prepared for the way his voice comes out, low and hoarse.  “Yeah, I did.”

Pidge looks at him fully, then, and it’s almost like he can see the gears whirring in her head.  “But you’re graduating.”

“So?” Lance steps forward, emboldened. He never thought he’d make it this far.  “If Keith and Shiro can manage it, then so can we.”

“You’re not as responsible as Shiro.”

“Okay, see, clearly in that statement I was comparing myself to Keith.”

Pidge smiles. In the dark, the glint of her teeth is a prize all its own.

“I don’t even know why I like you,” she says, but it’s all warmth and affection, edged with wonder.  Lance’s chest buzzes with it.

“I can make a list,” he offers.  “Would you like it alphabetized?  I give really good back rubs.”

That gets him an eye roll.

God, he really likes her eye rolls.

Pidge beckons with a finger.  “C’mere.”

Lance doesn’t need to be told twice.  As he approaches, he realizes that the reason Pidge hasn’t moved is because she’s strategically positioned herself on a ledge.  It gives her an added foot of height, forcing him to tilt his face up slightly as they get closer.  Because of _course_ Pidge would take the high ground.

“Is this some sort of power play?” he asks.  “Because if so… that’s pretty kinky.”

“Shut up, Lance,” says Pidge, winding her arms around his neck.  He shrugs off his duffel to hold her closer; the bag hits the ground with a satisfying _thump,_ and then it’s nothing but softness and strawberry chapstick, noses bumping against each other when they miss the first time, laughing in the late night air.

Pidge folds into his arms perfectly, and he beams up at her when they break apart.

“Wanna grab Slurpees before we head to Allura’s?”

She grins down at him.  A tiny green gremlin with a sweet tooth and a loudly thumping heart.

“You bet.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **EDIT 9/4/17:** now with [this lovely artwork!!](http://redbeantofu.tumblr.com/post/164984741246/this-fic-watered-my-crops-and-cured-my-depression)
> 
> come talk/yell/be friends with me over on [tumblr!](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) :)


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